The Hollow Men
by ashestodusters
Summary: This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper. Corvo escapes from Coldridge prison. The six months he spent there weigh heavily on him, what follows even more so. He is not the same man, he doubts he will ever be the same again. But he can't afford to dwell, he has an empress to save and an empire to rebuild and Dunwall rests for no man.


Overture

Do Not Look Too Deep Inside (That Is Where The Shadows Hide)

~'*'~

 _Those who have crossed / With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom / Remember us—if at all—not as lost / Violent souls, but only / As the hollow men / The stuffed men._

~'*'~

Corvo cannot clearly recall his time spent in Coldridge. The six months of routine punishment he endured there have blurred until it feels as though he suffered for both a single day and eternity. He cannot recall the demands they shouted at him when he could hardly think straight, caught between exhaustion and agonising pain.

Oh yes, he remembers that. He remembers the pain, the endless grief, a hole wrenched in his heart, a void that gaped and bled with loss. He remembers the debilitating hunger and thirst of a diet designed to keep him barely alive. He remembers the conviction to never give in, holding together the fragments of his integrity and pride, refusing to say a word no matter what they did do him.

Because they could take away everything, everything except the pure and untouchable certainty that he was _innocent_ and there was nothing they could do that would change that.

~'*'~

The first time he saw the sun and felt wind on his skin and the taste of fresh air and _freedom_ Corvo wanted to do nothing more than to sink to the silty, muddy, ground and sob.

Instead, the adrenaline that had somehow kept his broken body moving refused to fade away, his heart fluttered and breath caught as he came face-to-face not with a guard but a friend. Samuel was speaking, but he couldn't comprehend the words past the rushing in his ears. Time warped around him, and when it settled once more Samuel had long fallen silent. Now the boatman was holding his arms outstretched, as though to reassure him that he carried no weapons, and approached slowly, as though Corvo was a wounded animal that he expected to lash out.

 _Maybe that's what he was now, an animal._

The paranoia that had settled on him was hard to shake and it took a long moment, too long, before he lowered the weapons, though he could not convince his fingers to relax their grip on the steel. Absently he wondered how much they would throb painfully later. Encouraged, Samuel had inched closer, still remaining firmly out of blade range.

"Are you alright sir?" The weathered voice was polite, gentle. Corvo opened his mouth to reply that _yes, he was fine, they needed to go before the guards caught up_ , but the moment the words rose his mind _screamed_ and the sounds choked before they could leave his lips.

Panicked, Corvo tried again, but silence was too engrained in him now. For six months he had trained himself not to speak, for the only noise to leave him to be shouts of pain. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe, his knees buckled and darkness overtook his vision.

Awareness seeped back in slowly, soothing sounds of the river tide, and shafts of light, almost too bright. As the world came back into focus Corvo realised that Samuel was crouched beside him, with a hand resting ever-so-lightly on his back. Even the gentle pressure stung against the wounds left by whip and flame, but it was a grounding pain and more than anything else the ache anchored him in the present. A sea-beaten voice murmured platitudes as his inhales and exhales gradually fell back into a regular pattern.

A quick glance sideways and he could see his rescuer; Samuel looked tense, ready to jump away at the slightest movement. It took Corvo a second to understand that the boatman was afraid of him, which was odd because Corvo was pretty sure he didn't even have the strength to stand.

He wanted to laugh at the irony of it all but his throat would not obey. Instead, he finally managed to convince his frozen hands to drop the blade and crossbow with a muffled clatter.

Beside him, Samuel visibly relaxed, and whatever power that had kept Corvo going drained from him in a rush. In an instant, the sob that had been lodged in his chest was released and before he could even try to force it down, Samuel pulled him into a tighter embrace and let him fall apart.

Later, when they were safely down river and far from prying eyes, Corvo cleaned his sword of river mud in mechanical movements under Samuel's watchful eyes. The boatman had kept up a quiet monologue since pulling away from shore for which Corvo was grateful. Both of them knew that beneath the layers of dirt, the blade had been clean of even a single drop of blood.

~'*'~

The Hound Pits Pub is so decrepit that Corvo is amazed it is still upright. It takes a soft nudge from Samuel before he shakily rises to trembling feet. The Loyalists greet him with enthusiasm and trepidation.

He does not speak in response to their questions, but scrambles for pen and paper instead. He sees the pitying looks. They think that the Coldridge guards had removed his tongue.

A part of him wishes they had.

~'*'~

The bath makes him feel slightly more human, though he still wanders like a wraith in an unfamiliar body. Clothes that would have fit him six months before now hang loosely from his frame, his eyes hold a constant haunted look. He can barely stand the sight of himself in the mirror.

The first bite of food explodes richly on his taste buds and for one horrifying moment he thinks he is going to be sick then and there. Through sheer willpower he holds it back and somehow manages to force a few more measly spoonfuls down. It is not enough, he knows. _It, he, will never be enough_.

A quiet maid called Lydia shows his timidly to his room in the attic. She apologises for the state but doesn't need to. Tattered though it may be, the bed is softer than he could have dreamed and the windows keep the precious warmth in.

Lydia leaves him to get settled and returns with a bowl of warm, plain, near-flavourless broth. It is perfect and Corvo practically inhales it under her watchful gaze. Blushing at his lack of table manners, he sheepishly hands back the empty bowl. Holding a finger up to indicate that she should wait, he hurriedly scrawls a thank you note for her kindness and thoughtfulness. In return Lydia's respect for him seems to rise near-visibly and she bows politely before leaving. He wonders if the Loyalists have ever thanked her for her work.

He lies on the soft mattress, rests his head on soft pillows and tosses and turns and chases sleep for the next few hours, the food sits heavily, uncomfortably, in his stomach.

In the early hours of the morning he gives up, strips the blanket off the bed, lies on the cold hard floor that he has become used to and drifts into the worlds of dreams within seconds.

He wakes a few hours later shaking in terror, the vision of Jessamine crying his name burned into his irises, voice choking on a soundless scream.

He re-makes the bed. They do not need to know that he can't find sleep there.

 _They do not need to know how broken he is._

~'*'~

They have prepared a room for Emily and it's there that he finds the book. Buried beneath piles of paper and crayons for lessons and recreation, its spine cracked and pages yellowed, the book of Gristolian languages and dialects is so easily overlooked.

He takes it back to his room and when, once again, sleep fails to come that night he spends the midnight hours teaching himself sign instead.

~'*'~

 _Is it like this / In death's other kingdom / Waking alone / At the hour when we are / Trembling with tenderness / Lips that would kiss / Form prayers to broken stone._

~'*'~

The Void does not scare Corvo, the Outsider does not unnerve him. He finds that there is something calming in the whale-song and mist that cloaks this realm. The Mark sears when it brands itself onto the back of his hand, but he barely notices the burn, it takes a lot for him to feel pain nowadays. He lingers before completing the Outsider's test of his new powers to soak in the atmosphere.

For the first time since the day he arrived back in Dunwall with bad news his muscles are relaxed and his mind is calm. The turmoil of thoughts that have been his constant companion have quietened and the silence is glorious.

He almost feels at peace here.

Then he picks up the Heart, and it speaks with _her_ voice and he is almost sick again. In his horror, the Heart begins to fall from boneless fingers and he fumbles to catch it again, to catch _her_.

 _You cannot save her._

It is both the worst and best gift he has ever received.

~'*'~

"Corvo!" Emily's shout of delight makes his soul hurt with longing as the horrid mask slips from his grasp. His embrace is loose and weak and his throat constricts painfully around the words he aches to say. He is terrified of hurting her.

Emily chatters to fill the silence she is yet to truly register and he basks in the sound of her voice and fills with pride as she describes her escape attempts. She is every inch her mother's daughter.

 _And her father's_ his traitorous mind whispers.

It takes Emily until halfway across the Wrenhaven to work out that something is seriously wrong.

"Corvo?" she asks tentatively, and it is _wrong_ to hear her address to him like that, with anything less than total trust and confidence, "why haven't you said anything?" Corvo wants to tear the world apart at the sheer unfairness of it all.

Samuel, as always, jumps to his rescue, calmly explaining that Corvo didn't talk much anymore because he needed to be really quiet and sneaky for his jobs. It isn't truth but for the time being it's enough for Emily and she gives him a sad smile.

"That's alright Corvo," she says with false brightness that does not suit her, "I can talk instead."

He shakes beneath the weight of everything he cannot say.

~'*'~

The missions blur together in shades of fear, the heart-stopping terror of being discovered, being seen, the adrenaline that keeps him moving when otherwise he would freeze. He moves through the shadows like a ghost and his hands remain clean.

His mother raised him to value the merciful path, he does not enjoy killing, he will not start taking lives now. He couldn't even if he wanted to, he hardly has the strength to maintain a chokehold, let alone win in a duel of blades.

~'*'~

Daud almost changes that. It had taken everything he had to restrain the blood lust he had felt upon seeing Burrows. It had been worth it to hear the man's spluttering as he was arrested and taken away, cathartic even, to see their roles reversed.

It had not been worth it to be betrayed again, ingesting poison that ravages his already weakened body. Nor to be taunted by the killer of the only woman he has ever loved.

Climbing out of the hole they had thrown him down, risking everything to get his possessions back, surrounded by weepers and death, wondering how on earth he hasn't contracted the plague. He avoids the assassins wherever he can, renders them unconscious where he can not. They had only been following orders, he wasn't interested in them.

Daud, on the other hand, Daud was the one to tear the life from his beloved and he feels a surge of satisfaction as he duels the monster from Emily's nightmares. Despite his weakened muscles, Corvo makes up for what he lacks in strength with the swordsmanship that had earned him the position of Royal Protector in the first place.

By some miracle he wins, he has the blade at Daud's throat and Daud is pleading for his life but Corvo is not listening to the words. He does not spare him for his words.

No, he spares Daud because he looked into the eyes of the assassin as he lay defeated beneath him and saw a shadow of himself. In that moment he knew that Daud was already suffering and that in this case death would be a mercy and a release.

~'*'~

Kingsparrow Island looks deceptively calm and it is almost too easy for Corvo to sneak his way up to the Admiral. He is ready for anything, will do anything, to protect Emily.

But it turns out that Havelock has already done the work for him. Pendleton has passed on by the time he reaches them, Teague is alive but beyond help. Knocking out Havelock takes barely a second and he scrambles for the key on the man's belt. Beyond the door at the end of the room he can hear Emily calling for him.

He walks out of the fortress holding his sword in one hand with the other held in Emily's fragile grasp. The guards do not stop them, they have the sense to know that it's finished.

Corvo wants nothing more than to reassure Emily that everything is going to be alright, but as always the words remain stuck in his throat and all he can do is hold her tight, both of them shaking, as Samuel diligently and reverently sails them back to Dunwall Tower.

Havelock is arrested. He joins Burrows in Coldridge. Corvo cannot bring himself to go and interrogate them, not whilst they stay in that place.

It's finally over.

~'*'~

 _Between the idea / And the reality / Between the motion / And the act / Falls the Shadow_

~'*'~

The first few years following Emily's coronation are difficult. Whilst the people love her dearly, Dunwall is still a mess. There is a clean up to be organised now that they have a cure for the plague courtesy of Sokolov and Piero, and there are still traitors to be rooted out. Corvo finds himself acting as both Royal Protector and Royal Spymaster. It is exhausting work, but nothing he isn't used to.

The tower staff tactfully say nothing about the deep purple shadows under his eyes or the makeshift bed he has set up on the floor of his office on the opposite side of the room to the four-poster they had provided. They also tactfully don't comment on how he has chosen to build his unconventional resting place in the most defensive part of the room, with clear lines to sight to every point of entry.

He still struggles to find rest lying on anything softer than a thin blanket.

He takes sign lessons with Emily, they both recognise the need for clear communication between them, especially considering the nature of his official roles. He can see Emily's heart breaking just a little more with every day that his voice remains locked away, he tries to hide the scars from her, but she has always been able to see through him.

As for court, it had been bad enough when he had just been a Serkonan Royal Protector, let alone a mute Serkonan Royal Protector.

Without consulting him Emily hires an official sign translator. Katia Ellendez looks like a farmer's daughter dressed in her Sunday best when she arrives. Her family are not wealthy, they are the best clothes she owns. She, too, is Serkonan.

The nobility are far from happy with the new appointment but they cannot argue with the Empress, or at least, they cannot risk arguing. Emily's signing is good, but she needs to be able to keep her focus on the matters of state during council meetings, rather than worrying about translating for him.

But Corvo has to admit that it was a good idea. Katia is fluent in Gristolian, Serkonan and the signs for both languages; her accent is barely noticeable when she speaks. She translates for him quickly, fluidly, and accurately.

Emily also hires a tailor to fit Katia in clothes more appropriate to her new rank, but Katia stubbornly holds onto the torn dress she had arrived in and refuses to part with it. Emily gives in nearly immediately. It's why the people love her. She has always had an affinity with the poor.

Katia is a blessing during those hard years, and a genuinely lovely person to boot. Though she does not know it, her kindly manner and gentleness save him from falling into despair more times than he can count. If he could, Corvo would make her a royal advisor in a heartbeat. If he could bring himself to love again, maybe there would have been something more between them. Instead he contents himself with watching her sternly teach the grumbling but reluctantly attentive aristocracy basic sign and sign etiquette with a smirk of amusement, barely visible, creeping across his lips.

Over time, he comes to count Katia as his closest friend.

~'*'~

Once, and only once, at the end of a particularly bad week does Corvo sit in his office with his loaded pistol laid on the desk in front of him and consider ending it.

Court has fought back at every decision he and Emily have made, his workload has shot through the roof with the upcoming Fugue Feast and ball. The mutters behind his back have increased dramatically (or has he just noticed it more), the anniversary of Jessamine's death still sits fresh in his mind. He feels so _tired_ , so _worn_ , so _numb_.

Has he not suffered enough?

He has barely slept, and not for lack of trying, but the nightmares have started to haunt his waking hours as well. The shadow of his failure, of Jessamine, weighs on his shoulders. The scars on his body ache like they haven't in years and if he closes his eyes he fears he will open them and find himself back in his cell in Coldridge, with everything that has happened since nothing but a wistful dream.

He doesn't know how much time passes as he sits there contemplating.

The Mark on his hand speaks volumes in its silence when he finally picks up the pistol, fingers completely steady as they wrap around the grip, the barrel burns cold on his temple.

It would be so _easy_.

But then he hears Emily's voice calling for him and the weapons drops from his nerveless hand. Shaking with the sudden release of emotion he hurriedly picks the gun up and holsters it safely away, although touching it suddenly repulses him, and takes a moment to build his façade back up before moving to the door to greet his daughter.

 _She cannot know_.

He understands now that he will not be able to pull the trigger until Emily has passed from the world.

~'*'~

Every year on the anniversary of Jessamine's death Corvo receives a bottle of wine from a vineyard in Serkonos, and every year he takes it out to the gazebo where Jessamine was murdered and throws it into the sea unopened. The fourth year the bottle comes with a note detailing a plot to overthrow the Empress. Corvo does some digging and finds the information to be accurate.

That year he takes the wine down to the gazebo as usual but, rather than gifting it to the waves, he smoothly pops the cork out with the ease of a long-practiced movement and takes a sip straight from the bottle.

Swirling the mouthful around he lets the flavour burst. The wine is surprisingly good, but it is sharper than he expected and has a slightly bitter aftertaste.

 _Much like the man that makes it_ , he thinks with a silent chuckle.

Sitting alone on the stone wall, legs swinging over the heart-stopping drop into the Wrenhaven, Corvo drinks his way through the entire bottle and watches the sun set.

The next year he sends a bottle of Dunwall whiskey back and with it a letter demanding Daud appear before the Empress. Weeks later Corvo hides his laugh at the stupified expression on the assassin's face as they appoint him the new Spymaster.

~'*'~

Emily's sixteenth birthday ball is in full swing when he spots the light glinting off the metal pistol barrel and is moving before Katia can blink in surprise. He knows before he has even taken a step that he will not be able to get there fast enough; he cannot use his powers in front of the Overseers because, whilst it might save her life, Emily will lose him to the Abbey and death, and she has already lost enough. He sees visions of her falling, blood bright crimson against the gold and white of her jacket.

In his desperation something broken and raw rips itself from his throat.

"Emily!"

It is barely recognisable as a word, his vocal cords are scratched and ruined from months of screaming in prison, his tongue stumbles around now unfamiliar movements. The Empress jerks back a step in surprise at the unexpected sound; her head whips round to face him, eyes wide in shock and wonder.

It is enough to move her out of the line of fire.

In seconds the would-be-assassin is taken down beneath the brute force of Corvo and Captain Curnow combined and the moment he is certain that the aggressor is secure Corvo has gathered Emily to him, uncaring of watchful eyes and buries his face in her hair to hide his tears as he feels Emily's hands move to clutch at him just as hard, her minute frame shivering in his embrace.

It is fitting that his first word is her name; nothing else could ever have been worthy.

He will keep her safe. He will always keep her safe. It is everything. It is all that he is.

The room is silent except for the sound of ragged breathing and the ragged voice of the Lord Protector choking out Emily's name over and over again like a prayer.

~'*'~

 _This is the way the world ends / This is the way the world ends / This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper._


End file.
